


I Want Tomorrow

by hoosierbitch



Category: White Collar
Genre: BDSM, Cock Rings, Comeplay, Dom/sub, Infidelity, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Porn, Rough Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Saturday, and Peter's got Neal all to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want Tomorrow

Neal’s completely undone, desperate and shuddering and entirely focused on Peter’s cock inside of him, torturously thick and hard. Neal’s hands card through Peter’s hair, press heavy on his shoulders, pause rough on his nipples—they roam everywhere except down to the black band wrapped on his cock and balls. Neal’s riding him like a cowboy (_never gonna be able to say ‘cowboy up’ without getting aroused after this_), Neal’s _been_ riding him for what seems like hours. His thighs are tense and shaking, his shoulders slumped, his cock gone from red to purple.

Peter’s already come twice. First in Neal’s pretty mouth, then across his chest. He’s in no hurry now. He’d thought that he’d stop when Neal started begging, thought that was the goal. But Neal’s been pleading for a while, now, incoherent whimpers interspersed with _please_ and velvet low moans that sound vaguely like _Peter._

See, Neal’s always beautiful. Peter’s not doing this just to see Neal with his face gone tense with pleasure, his back arched like a bow, his pink lips raw around Peter’s cock—and he’s not doing it just to see Neal desperate. He remembers perfectly Neal’s pale face in the courtroom, and four years later that same look as Peter left him in prison.

See, right now? He has Neal’s complete attention. He knows what Neal is feeling, what he wants. Right now, Peter trusts him. Four years or forever, ankle monitor or naked, Neal, right now, is entirely Peter’s.

When Neal slips up again and reaches for his cock (_his ass still bright red and tender from his first mistake_) Peter flips them over. He hikes Neal’s knees into the crook of his arm, one over his shoulder. He can feel the GPS hit his back with each thrust. He fucks Neal until he screams.

“Say you’re mine,” he spits out, teeth in Neal’s neck, “say it and I’ll let you come.”

Neal’s hands flutter clumsily around Peter’s head. His eyes are huge, pupils dilated, mouth open, but nothing coherent emerges.

Peter stills, buried to the hilt in Neal’s hot, swollen ass, Neal’s skin scorching against his thighs. Neal tries to fuck himself back, tries to rub himself against Peter’s stomach, but he’s got no leverage. “Say you’re mine,” Peter repeats, trying to focus past the sensation of Neal Caffrey shaking underneath him, clenching around him.

Neal turns his head away and says “Peter,” like that’s an answer in itself. He twists around until Peter can feel his breath stutter against the inside of his left wrist, where Peter’s propping himself up. Neal closes his eyes and lays a chaste kiss on Peter’s wedding ring. For some obscene reason Peter’s cock jumps inside Neal. It feels like he gets even harder. “Peter,” like a warning.

He reaches down between them and rips the ring off Neal, strokes him roughly through his orgasm, coming himself for the third time in the blinding pressure of Neal spasming around him. Peter rests his forehead on Neal’s. He drives himself in twice more and breathes in Neal’s startled cries. He licks up sweat and what might be tears, a line from Neal’s closed eyes to his parted lips. He kisses the corner of Neal’s mouth. Neal, still gulping in huge breaths, doesn’t kiss him back. He pulls out as gently as he can, but Neal’s eyes still tighten with pain.

 

“I trust you,” Neal says as Peter plays with the come slowly leaking out of him. “I—I don’t think you get to ask for more than that. Not without giving something first.” He pulls Peter’s hand to his mouth and cleans each individual finger, licking their combined tastes carefully away.

 

“I told you already that Elizabeth’s okay with...with what we’re doing.”

Neal traces a finger over the line that forms between Peter’s eyebrows. “I know. And I’m very grateful for that.”

“What do you want, then?” Peter asks uneasily.

“I don’t want to be yours unless you’re mine, too, Peter. I’m not your—your mistress, not an affair, thanks to Elizabeth’s generosity, but I—but I’m not your pet, either.” Neal tries to pull away but Peter’s grip on him is too tight.

“The state’s owned me for the past four years. The FBI has me for four more. And Kate took—Kate took whatever I might have had left.” Neal gives him a twisted, helpless smile. “But I think I’d give you whatever you asked for, Peter, if you ask again.”

Peter looks down at his ring, and thinks about Elizabeth, who will have breakfast ready when he goes home tomorrow morning, then looks at Neal. Who’s wearing Peter’s bruises like a thousand dollar suit but his own skin like a prison uniform. Who’s stolen and sold priceless paintings, Neal who had everything. He thinks about what he’s already taken away and what he’s willing to give back.

“Come home with me tomorrow,” Peter says. “Have breakfast with us.” Neal’s breath hitches and he searches Peter’s face for any hint of lie, any hint of promise. “I think you’re wonderful,” he says, honestly, and kisses the dark bruise on the side of Neal’s neck when he curls away.


End file.
